


Soft as angel's wings

by basaltgrrl



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 09:50:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17098331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl
Summary: Originally written for Martian Holiday, prompt: Sam/Gene, St. Christopher





	Soft as angel's wings

It’s only afterwards, after the furious struggle by the canal… after the ringing blow to the side of his head that turned the world sideways, after the unbearable pressure of the arm across his throat, and the kind of fight that blooms unexpectedly out of the desperate need to breathe—and after the yell, the wordless cry that made men shrink back, made the arm ease up, allowed Sam a gasp of air…

After he’s suddenly, blessedly free, coughing on his hands and knees and drooling phlegm and hoping that he might actually survive this…

And when he can finally draw a full, fiery breath of air, lean back on his heels and contemplate the dirty brick wall on the other side of the dingy waterway…

And Gene’s turning away from the men they’ve detained, leaving them to Ray and two plod, sudden blank concern on his face as he sees Sam still on his knees…

And then Sam’s leaning against a wall, Gene’s arm around his shoulders, Gene’s saying something but he can’t be bothered to focus on the words yet, too glad to be alive, staring up into the concrete sky…

When he puts a hand to touch the skin of his own throat, hardly believing it’s unmarked, then he realizes that something’s missing.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?”

Sam’s on his knees again, but scrabbling among the weeds and bits of trash. He doesn’t care anymore that his throat is on fire, or that there’s something wet running down the side of his neck.

“Sam!”

Gene hauls him to his feet, drags him five feet to a low stone wall, makes him sit. He glares back, furious.

“My medallion…!” he begins.

“…bleeding like a stuck pig…” he hears through the static, and it’s only then that he realizes there is static, a roaring from a thousand miles away, and suddenly his head hurts a lot more than it had. Gene produces a wrinkled handkerchief and presses it against Sam’s temple.  
The roar surges and drives the light away.

***

It’s dark when he opens his eyes. Not completely dark. There’s light from a corridor, and medical smells, and a waft of cigarette smoke that makes his throat burn.

“Gene,” he rasps.

There’s a pause, the sound of a long breath and then a hacking cough of an exhalation.

“Bloody hell, Sammy-boy,” and Gene’s voice is dry and rough as burlap. “Told you not to run ahead.”

Sam closes his eyes again.

***

When he wakes again it’s day, and there’s music. It takes him a while to realize that it’s a Christmas carol, tinny and distant, and he feels like he’s swimming through treacle as he turns his head—carefully, as if it’s a piece of old china—to see an empty chair tucked into the space between his bed and the wall.

He sighs. Yes, so it’s Christmas morning. He would have remembered that eventually, even without “Deck the Halls”. And of course Gene has better places to be. He’s got a wife, relatives, even if Sam has never seen them. If Sam’s lucky he might get a visit from Annie later, although she’s got family, too. Or wait, she was going home for Christmas.

One of his hands is lying on top of the blanket, the other is tucked down by his side. He moves his hand to his head, slowly, and feels the wraps of gauze. Could have been worse. Could have gone into the canal. Could have been shot. Could have—

He remembers, suddenly, and his hand drops to his throat. He grunts at the pain, fingertips questing at the hollow of his own throat and around the sides of his neck, around the bruises. The chain’s gone.

Why does it matter now, after all this time? It wasn’t even something he chose. Just one of those things, like the jacket, that became part of him so insidiously that he didn’t even notice it happening. And now that he has chosen this, all of this including the job and the flat and the clothes and the music and the people—now things are going to be taken away?

His eyes burn.

He turns his face into the pillow.

***

When he wakes again it’s dark, the sky deep blue against the window frame. The light from the hallway spills across the foot of his bed. He feels sharper, more aware. He knows he’s hungry. He knows his head hurts.

He stretches, experimentally.

“Bout time,” rasps a voice to the left of his head.

“Gene.”

“Sam.” A hand grabs his shoulder and gives it a gentle rub.

“Gene.”

“All right. Relax.” The hand presses him down. “You’ll be fine. They were worried, but they said—“ his voices catches, and there’s a surprisingly long pause. “If you wake up, and talk—they said your noggin’s OK.”

“Where’s my—“

“Shhh.”

They both subside into silence. Gene’s hand is still on Sam’s shoulder, still rubbing gently. Sam takes slow breaths, deliberately, piecing things together. The chase along the canal. The ambush. The fight. The explosion of white light when something hit his head. He can remember a lot of it.

Gene shifts, and Sam can hear soft noises, and then the slosh of liquid.

“You want some?” Gene asks after a moment.

“No.” Sam feels empty and alone, still, even though Gene is right there beside him. He feels small and broken, without his jacket, his medallion. It’s all a little distant, like the faint ache of hunger in his belly, but suddenly he feels tears welling in his eyes and the enormity of his misery hits him.

Trying to cover his eyes, trying to turn away from Gene, but he’s so damn weak, he can’t even move, and he finds himself making a noise—a sob, but it’s torn out of him and he knows what he must sound like, he knows the words Gene’s going to say.

“Hey.” Gene’s hand is right back on his shoulder. “Sammy. Shhh. You’ll be all right.” His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. His chair creaks, and then he’s bent over the bed, blotting Sam’s eyes with a fold of the sheet. “Wasn’t going to tell you until you were feeling better, but...” He digs in a pocket of his coat, muffles a curse, pulls out a small box. He makes as if to hand it to Sam and then reconsiders and opens it himself, lifting out a chain.  
It’s a St. Christopher medallion. The sculpting catches the light from the hall. Sam catches his breath, moans softly.

Gene fumbles the clasp open and his fingers are warm against Sam’s neck. Sam lifts his head, obediently, and the small disc of metal settles against his chest. He touches it, stares wonderingly into Gene’s face.

“Merry Christmas.” The tone is gruff, Gene’s eyes wandering but then darting back to meet Sam’s. “We were up at dawn this morning, searching. I had Ray and Chris and a couple of plod. Took us hours. Finally found it back by that warehouse. And you needn’t buy me a present. You’re—“ he coughs. “You’re still here. That’s present enough.”

It must be the drugs, or the head injury. Sam’s not sure what’s happening here, what kind of transformation has taken place.

“Gene?” he stammers. “But—“

Gene bends over and his lips press, soft as—soft as angel’s wings, to Sam’s forehead. Then to the tip of his nose, and then against Sam’s lips.

“Just glad you’re still here,” he says, gruffly. “Now get some kip.”

“Yes, Guv.” And he settles down, into the clean, white sheets and closes his eyes.


End file.
